I tried them the very next day. They had boasted their strength loudly when they reclaimed3 me from love and its bondage4, but upon my demanding deeds, not words, some evidence of better comfort, some experience of a relieved life — Freedom excused himself, as for the present impoverished5 and disabled to assist; and Renovation never spoke6; he had died in the night suddenly.
I had nothing left for it then but to trust secretly that conjecture7 might have hurried me too fast and too far, to sustain the oppressive hour by reminders8 of the distorting and discolouring magic of jealousy9. After a short and vain struggle, I found myself brought back captive to the old rack of suspense10, tied down and strained anew.
Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does he purpose to come? Will this day — will the next hour bring him? or must I again assay11 that corroding12 pain of long attent — that rude agony of rupture13 at the close, that mute, mortal wrench14, which, in at once uprooting15 hope and doubt, shakes life; while the hand that does the violence cannot be caressed16 to pity, because absence interposes her barrier!
It was the Feast of the Assumption; no school was held. The boarders and teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a long walk into the country to take their go?ter, or afternoon meal, at some farm-house. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained ere the Paul et Virginie must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance, as the living waif of a wreck17 clings to his last raft or cable.
There was some joiners’ work to do in the first classe, some bench or desk to repair; holidays were often turned to account for the performance of these operations, which could not be executed when the rooms were filled with pupils. As I sat solitary18, purposing to adjourn19 to the garden and leave the coast clear, but too listless to fulfil my own intent, I heard the workmen coming.
Foreign artisans and servants do everything by couples: I believe it would take two Labassecourien carpenters to drive a nail. While tying on my bonnet20, which had hitherto hung by its ribbons from my idle hand, I vaguely21 and momentarily wondered to hear the step of but one “ouvrier.” I noted22, too — as captives in dungeons23 find sometimes dreary24 leisure to note the merest trifles — that this man wore shoes, and not sabots: I concluded that it must be the master-carpenter, coming to inspect before he sent his journeymen. I threw round me my scarf. He advanced; he opened the door; my back was towards it; I felt a little thrill — a curious sensation, too quick and transient to be analyzed26. I turned, I stood in the supposed master-artisan’s presence: looking towards the door-way, I saw it filled with a figure, and my eyes printed upon my brain the picture of M. Paul.
Hundreds of the prayers with which we weary Heaven bring to the suppliant27 no fulfilment. Once haply in life, one golden gift falls prone28 in the lap — one boon29 full and bright, perfect from Fruition’s mint.
M. Emanuel wore the dress in which he probably purposed to travel — a surtout, guarded with velvet30; I thought him prepared for instant departure, and yet I had understood that two days were yet to run before the ship sailed. He looked well and cheerful. He looked kind and benign31: he came in with eagerness; he was close to me in one second; he was all amity32. It might be his bridegroom mood which thus brightened him. Whatever the cause, I could not meet his sunshine with cloud. If this were my last moment with him, I would not waste it in forced, unnatural33 distance. I loved him well — too well not to smite34 out of my path even Jealousy herself, when she would have obstructed35 a kind farewell. A cordial word from his lips, or a gentle look from his eyes, would do me good, for all the span of life that remained to me; it would be comfort in the last strait of loneliness; I would take it — I would taste the elixir36, and pride should not spill the cup.
The interview would be short, of course: he would say to me just what he had said to each of the assembled pupils; he would take and hold my hand two minutes; he would touch my cheek with his lips for the first, last, only time — and then — no more. Then, indeed, the final parting, then the wide separation, the great gulf37 I could not pass to go to him — across which, haply, he would not glance, to remember me.
He took my hand in one of his, with the other he put back my bonnet; he looked into my face, his luminous38 smile went out, his lips expressed something almost like the wordless language of a mother who finds a child greatly and unexpectedly changed, broken with illness, or worn out by want. A check supervened.
“Paul, Paul!” said a woman’s hurried voice behind, “Paul, come into the salon39; I have yet a great many things to say to you — conversation for the whole day — and so has Victor; and Josef is here. Come Paul, come to your friends.”
Madame Beck, brought to the spot by vigilance or an inscrutable instinct, pressed so near, she almost thrust herself between me and M. Emanuel.
“Come, Paul!” she reiterated40, her eye grazing me with its hard ray like a steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman41. I thought he receded42; I thought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now to feel what defied suppression, I cried —
“My heart will break!”
What I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of another fountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, the whisper, “Trust me!” lifted a load, opened an outlet43. With many a deep sob44, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yet with relief — I wept.
“Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and it will pass,” said the calm Madame Beck.
To be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like being left to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply, harshly, and briefly45 —“Laissez-moi!” in the grim sound I felt a music strange, strong, but life-giving.
“Laissez-moi!” he repeated, his nostrils46 opening, and his facial muscles all quivering as he spoke.
“But this will never do,” said Madame, with sternness. More sternly rejoined her kinsman —
“Sortez d’ici!”
“I will send for Père Silas: on the spot I will send for him,” she threatened pertinaciously47.
“Femme!” cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in his highest and most excited key, “Femme! sortez à l’instant!”
He was roused, and I loved him in his wrath48 with a passion beyond what I had yet felt.
“What you do is wrong,” pursued Madame; “it is an act characteristic of men of your unreliable, imaginative temperament49; a step impulsive50, injudicious, inconsistent — a proceeding51 vexatious, and not estimable in the view of persons of steadier and more resolute52 character.”
“You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me,” said he, “but you shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste,” he continued less fiercely, “be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face, and relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends; in spite of your taunts53, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Of sacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by what I see; it must have and give solace54. Leave me!”
This time, in the “leave me“ there was an intonation55 so bitter and so imperative56, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could for one moment delay obedience57; but she stood firm; she gazed upon him dauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed58 as stone. She was opening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul’s face a quick rising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement; it did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave his hand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from the room; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second.
The flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told me to wipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from time to time a stilling, solacing59 word. Ere long I sat beside him once more myself — re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate60; not friendless, not hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death.
“It made you very sad then to lose your friend?” said he.
“It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur,” I said. “All these weary days I have not heard from you one word, and I was crushed with the possibility, growing to certainty, that you would depart without saying farewell!”
“Must I tell you what I told Modeste Beck — that you do not know me? Must I show and teach you my character? You will have proof that I can be a firm friend? Without clear proof this hand will not lie still in mine, it will not trust my shoulder as a safe stay? Good. The proof is ready. I come to justify61 myself.”
“Say anything, teach anything, prove anything, Monsieur; I can listen now.”
“Then, in the first place, you must go out with me a good distance into the town. I came on purpose to fetch you.”
Without questioning his meaning, or sounding his plan, or offering the semblance62 of an objection, I re-tied my bonnet: I was ready.
The route he took was by the boulevards: he several times made me sit down on the seats stationed under the lime-trees; he did not ask if I was tired, but looked, and drew his own conclusions.
“All these weary days,” said he, repeating my words, with a gentle, kindly63 mimicry64 of my voice and foreign accent, not new from his lips, and of which the playful banter65 never wounded, not even when coupled, as it often was, with the assertion, that however I might write his language, I spoke and always should speak it imperfectly and hesitatingly. “‘All these weary days’ I have not for one hour forgotten you. Faithful women err66 in this, that they think themselves the sole faithful of God’s creatures. On a very fervent67 and living truth to myself, I, too, till lately scarce dared count, from any quarter; but —— look at me.”,
I lifted my happy eyes: they were happy now, or they would have been no interpreters of my heart.
“Well,” said he, after some seconds’ scrutiny68, “there is no denying that signature: Constancy wrote it: her pen is of iron. Was the record painful?”
“Severely painful,” I said, with truth. “Withdraw her hand, Monsieur; I can bear its inscribing69 force no more.”
“Elle est toute pale,” said he, speaking to himself; “cette figure-là me fait mal.”
“Ah! I am not pleasant to look at ——?”
I could not help saying this; the words came unbidden: I never remember the time when I had not a haunting dread70 of what might be the degree of my outward deficiency; this dread pressed me at the moment with special force.
A great softness passed upon his countenance71; his violet eyes grew suffused72 and glistening73 under their deep Spanish lashes74: he started up; “Let us walk on.”
“Do I displease75 your eyes much?” I took courage to urge: the point had its vital import for me.
He stopped, and gave me a short, strong answer; an answer which silenced, subdued76, yet profoundly satisfied. Ever after that I knew what I was for him; and what I might be for the rest of the world, I ceased painfully to care. Was it weak to lay so much stress on an opinion about appearance? I fear it might be; I fear it was; but in that case I must avow77 no light share of weakness. I must own great fear of displeasing78 — a strong wish moderately to please M. Paul.
Whither we rambled79, I scarce knew. Our walk was long, yet seemed short; the path was pleasant, the day lovely. M. Emanuel talked of his voyage — he thought of staying away three years. On his return from Guadaloupe, he looked forward to release from liabilities and a clear course; and what did I purpose doing in the interval80 of his absence? he asked. I had talked once, he reminded me, of trying to be independent and keeping a little school of my own: had I dropped the idea?
“Indeed, I had not: I was doing my best to save what would enable me to put it in practice.”
“He did not like leaving me in the Rue81 Fossette; he feared I should miss him there too much — I should feel desolate — I should grow sad —?”
This was certain; but I promised to do my best to endure.
“Still,” said he, speaking low, “there is another objection to your present residence. I should wish to write to you sometimes: it would not be well to have any uncertainty82 about the safe transmission of letters; and in the Rue Fossette — in short, our Catholic discipline in certain matters — though justifiable83 and expedient84 — might possibly, under peculiar85 circumstances, become liable to misapplication — perhaps abuse.”
“But if you write,” said I, “I must have your letters; and I will have them: ten directors, twenty directresses, shall not keep them from me. I am a Protestant: I will not bear that kind of discipline: Monsieur, I will not.”
“Doucement — doucement,” rejoined he; “we will contrive86 a plan; we have our resources: soyez tranquille.”
So speaking, he paused.
We were now returning from the long walk. We had reached the middle of a clean Faubourg, where the houses were small, but looked pleasant. It was before the white door-step of a very neat abode87 that M. Paul had halted.
“I call here,” said he.
He did not knock, but taking from his pocket a key, he opened and entered at once. Ushering88 me in, he shut the door behind us. No servant appeared. The vestibule was small, like the house, but freshly and tastefully painted; its vista89 closed in a French window with vines trained about the panes90, tendrils, and green leaves kissing the glass. Silence reigned91 in this dwelling92.
Opening an inner door, M. Paul disclosed a parlour, or salon — very tiny, but I thought, very pretty. Its delicate walls were tinged93 like a blush; its floor was waxed; a square of brilliant carpet covered its centre; its small round table shone like the mirror over its hearth94; there was a little couch, a little chiffonnière, the half-open, crimson-silk door of which, showed porcelain95 on the shelves; there was a French clock, a lamp; there were ornaments96 in biscuit china; the recess97 of the single ample window was filled with a green stand, bearing three green flower-pots, each filled with a fine plant glowing in bloom; in one corner appeared a guéridon with a marble top, and upon it a work-box, and a glass filled with violets in water. The lattice of this room was open; the outer air breathing through, gave freshness, the sweet violets lent fragrance98.
“Pretty, pretty place!” said I. M. Paul smiled to see me so pleased.
“Must we sit down here and wait?” I asked in a whisper, half awed99 by the deep pervading100 hush101.
“We will first peep into one or two other nooks of this nutshell,” he replied.
“Dare you take the freedom of going all over the house?” I inquired.
“Yes, I dare,” said he, quietly.
He led the way. I was shown a little kitchen with a little stove and oven, with few but bright brasses102, two chairs and a table. A small cupboard held a diminutive103 but commodious104 set of earthenware105.
“There is a coffee service of china in the salon,” said M. Paul, as I looked at the six green and white dinner-plates; the four dishes, the cups and jugs107 to match.
Conducted up the narrow but clean staircase, I was permitted a glimpse of two pretty cabinets of sleeping-rooms; finally, I was once more led below, and we halted with a certain ceremony before a larger door than had yet been opened.
Producing a second key, M. Emanuel adjusted it to the lock of this door. He opened, put me in before him.
“Voici!” he cried.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment, scrupulously108 clean, though bare, compared with those I had hitherto seen. The well-scoured boards were carpetless; it contained two rows of green benches and desks, with an alley109 down the centre, terminating in an estrade, a teacher’s chair and table; behind them a tableau110, On the walls hung two maps; in the windows flowered a few hardy111 plants; in short, here was a miniature classe — complete, neat, pleasant.
“It is a school then?” said I. “Who keeps it? I never heard of an establishment in this faubourg.”
“Will you have the goodness to accept of a few prospectuses112 for distribution in behalf of a friend of mine?” asked he, taking from his surtout-pocket some quires of these documents, and putting them into my hand. I looked, I read — printed in fair characters:—
“Externat de demoiselles. Numéro 7, Faubourg Clotilde, Directrice, Mademoiselle Lucy Snowe.”
And what did I say to M. Paul Emanuel?
Certain junctures113 of our lives must always be difficult of recall to memory. Certain points, crises, certain feelings, joys, griefs, and amazements, when reviewed, must strike us as things wildered and whirling, dim as a wheel fast spun114.
I can no more remember the thoughts or the words of the ten minutes succeeding this disclosure, than I can retrace115 the experience of my earliest year of life: and yet the first thing distinct to me is the consciousness that I was speaking very fast, repeating over and over again:—
“Did you do this, M. Paul? Is this your house? Did you furnish it? Did you get these papers printed? Do you mean me? Am I the directress? Is there another Lucy Snowe? Tell me: say something.”
But he would not speak. His pleased silence, his laughing down-look, his attitude, are visible to me now.
“How is it? I must know all — all,” I cried.
The packet of papers fell on the floor. He had extended his hand, and I had fastened thereon, oblivious116 of all else.
“Ah! you said I had forgotten you all these weary days,” said he. “Poor old Emanuel! These are the thanks he gets for trudging117 about three mortal weeks from house-painter to upholsterer, from cabinet-maker to charwoman. Lucy and Lucy’s cot, the sole thoughts in his head!”
I hardly knew what to do. I first caressed the soft velvet on his cuff118, and then. I stroked the hand it surrounded. It was his foresight119, his goodness, his silent, strong, effective goodness, that overpowered me by their proved reality. It was the assurance of his sleepless120 interest which broke on me like a light from heaven; it was his — I will dare to say it — his fond, tender look, which now shook me indescribably. In the midst of all I forced myself to look at the practical.
“The trouble!” I cried, “and the cost! Had you money, M. Paul?”
“Plenty of money!” said he heartily121. “The disposal of my large teaching connection put me in possession of a handsome sum with part of it I determined122 to give myself the richest treat that I have known or shall know. I like this. I have reckoned on this hour day and night lately. I would not come near you, because I would not forestall123 it. Reserve is neither my virtue124 nor my vice106. If I had put myself into your power, and you had begun with your questions of look and lip — Where have you been, M. Paul? What have you been doing? What is your mystery? — my solitary first and last secret would presently have unravelled125 itself in your lap. Now,” he pursued, “you shall live here and have a school; you shall employ yourself while I am away; you shall think of me sometimes; you shall mind your health and happiness for my sake, and when I come back —”
There he left a blank.
I promised to do all he told me. I promised to work hard and willingly. “I will be your faithful steward,” I said; “I trust at your coming the account will be ready. Monsieur, monsieur, you are too good!”
In such inadequate126 language my feelings struggled for expression: they could not get it; speech, brittle127 and unmalleable, and cold as ice, dissolved or shivered in the effort. He watched me, still; he gently raised his hand to stroke my hair; it touched my lips in passing; I pressed it close, I paid it tribute. He was my king; royal for me had been that hand’s bounty128; to offer homage129 was both a joy and a duty.
The afternoon hours were over, and the stiller time of evening shaded the quiet faubourg. M. Paul claimed my hospitality; occupied and afoot since morning, he needed refreshment130; he said I should offer him chocolate in my pretty gold and white china service. He went out and ordered what was needful from the restaurant; he placed the small guéridon and two chairs in the balcony outside the French window under the screening vines. With what shy joy i accepted my part as hostess, arranged the salver, served the benefactor-guest.
This balcony was in the rear of the house, the gardens of the faubourg were round us, fields extended beyond. The air was still, mild, and fresh. Above the poplars, the laurels131, the cypresses132, and the roses, looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon133, the heart trembled under her smile; a star shone subject beside her, with the unemulous ray of pure love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale statue leaned over the play of waters.
M. Paul talked to me. His voice was so modulated134 that it mixed harmonious135 with the silver whisper, the gush136, the musical sigh, in which light breeze, fountain and foliage137 intoned their lulling138 vesper:
Happy hour — stay one moment! droop139 those plumes140, rest those wings; incline to mine that brow of Heaven! White Angel! let thy light linger; leave its reflection on succeeding clouds; bequeath its cheer to that time which needs a ray in retrospect141!
Our meal was simple: the chocolate, the rolls, the plate of fresh summer fruit, cherries and strawberries bedded in green leaves formed the whole: but it was what we both liked better than a feast, and I took a delight inexpressible in tending M. Paul. I asked him whether his friends, Père Silas and Madame Beck, knew what he had done — whether they had seen my house?
“Mon amie,” said he, “none knows what I have done save you and myself: the pleasure is consecrated142 to us two, unshared and unprofaned. To speak truth, there has been to me in this matter a refinement143 of enjoyment144 I would not make vulgar by communication. Besides” (smiling) “I wanted to prove to Miss Lucy that I could keep a secret. How often has she taunted145 me with lack of dignified146 reserve and needful caution! How many times has she saucily147 insinuated148 that all my affairs are the secret of Polichinelle!”
This was true enough: I had not spared him on this point, nor perhaps on any other that was assailable149. Magnificent-minded, grand-hearted, dear, faulty little man! You deserved candour, and from me always had it.
Continuing my queries150, I asked to whom the house belonged, who was my landlord, the amount of my rent. He instantly gave me these particulars in writing; he had foreseen and prepared all things.
The house was not M. Paul’s — that I guessed: he was hardly the man to become a proprietor151; I more than suspected in him a lamentable152 absence of the saving faculty153; he could get, but not keep; he needed a treasurer154. The tenement155, then, belonged to a citizen in the Basse-Ville — a man of substance, M. Paul said; he startled me by adding: “a friend of yours, Miss Lucy, a person who has a most respectful regard for you.” And, to my pleasant surprise, I found the landlord was none other than M. Miret, the short-tempered and kind-hearted bookseller, who had so kindly found me a seat that eventful night in the park. It seems M. Miret was, in his station, rich, as well as much respected, and possessed156 several houses in this faubourg; the rent was moderate, scarce half of what it would have been for a house of equal size nearer the centre of Villette.
“And then,” observed M. Paul, “should fortune not favour you, though I think she will, I have the satisfaction to think you are in good hands; M. Miret will not be extortionate: the first year’s rent you have already in your savings157; afterwards Miss Lucy must trust God, and herself. But now, what will you do for pupils?”
“I must distribute my prospectuses.”
“Right! By way of losing no time, I gave one to M. Miret yesterday. Should you object to beginning with three petite bourgeoises, the Demoiselles Miret? They are at your service.”
“Monsieur, you forget nothing; you are wonderful. Object? It would become me indeed to object! I suppose I hardly expect at the outset to number aristocrats158 in my little day-school; I care not if they never come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret’s daughters.”
“Besides these,” pursued he, “another pupil offers, who will come daily to take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will pay handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward25, Justine Marie Sauveur.”
What is in a name? — what in three words? Till this moment I had listened with living joy — I had answered with gleeful quickness; a name froze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden, and indeed I scarce tried to hide it.
“What now?” said M. Paul.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyes fade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what.”
I had nothing to tell.
He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed159, though I continued silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated160 with perseverance161, he waited with patience.
“Justine Marie is a good girl,” said he, “docile and amiable162; not quick — but you will like her.”
“I think not. I think she must not come here.”
Such was my speech.
“Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there is something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos; tell him the grief.”
His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards him.
“Do you know Marie Justine?” said he again.
The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did not prostrate163 — no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat through my veins164 — recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights of heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he had long twined his life in mine — far as had progressed, and near as was achieved our minds’ and affections’ assimilation — the very suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only with a fermenting165 excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve, an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb166 the cry.
“I want to tell you something,” I said: “I want to tell you all.”
“Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who is your friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!”
I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I narrated167; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back to the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught168 — why it was given — its goading169 effect — how it had torn rest from under my head, shaken me from my couch, carried me abroad with the lure170 of a vivid yet solemn fancy — a summer-night solitude171 on turf, under trees, near a deep, cool lakelet. I told the scene realized; the crowd, the masques, the music, the lamps, the splendours, the guns booming afar, the bells sounding on high. All I had encountered I detailed172, all I had recognised, heard, and seen; how I had beheld173 and watched himself: how I listened, how much heard, what conjectured174; the whole history, in brief, summoned to his confidence, rushed thither175, truthful176, literal, ardent177, bitter.
Still as I narrated, instead of checking, he incited178 me to proceed he spurred me by the gesture, the smile, the half-word. Before I had half done, he held both my hands, he consulted my eyes with a most piercing glance: there was something in his face which tended neither to calm nor to put me down; he forgot his own doctrine179, he forsook180 his own system of repression181 when I most challenged its exercise. I think I deserved strong reproof182; but when have we our deserts? I merited severity; he looked indulgence. To my very self I seemed imperious and unreasonable183, for I forbade Justine Marie my door and roof; he smiled, betraying delight. Warm, jealous, and haughty184, I knew not till now that my nature had such a mood: he gathered me near his heart. I was full of faults; he took them and me all home. For the moment of utmost mutiny, he reserved the one deep spell of peace. These words caressed my ear:—
“Lucy, take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.”
We walked back to the Rue Fossette by moonlight — such moonlight as fell on Eden — shining through the shades of the Great Garden, and haply gilding185 a path glorious for a step divine — a Presence nameless. Once in their lives some men and women go back to these first fresh days of our great Sire and Mother — taste that grand morning’s dew — bathe in its sunrise.
In the course of the walk I was told how Justine Marie Sauveur had always been regarded with the affection proper to a daughter — how, with M. Paul’s consent, she had been affianced for months to one Heinrich Mühler, a wealthy young German merchant, and was to be married in the course of a year. Some of M. Emanuel’s relations and connections would, indeed, it seems, have liked him to marry her, with a view to securing her fortune in the family; but to himself the scheme was repugnant, and the idea totally inadmissible.
We reached Madame Beck’s door. Jean Baptiste’s clock tolled186 nine. At this hour, in this house, eighteen months since, had this man at my side bent187 before me, looked into my face and eyes, and arbitered my destiny. This very evening he had again stooped, gazed, and decreed. How different the look — how far otherwise the fate!
He deemed me born under his star: he seemed to have spread over me its beam like a banner. Once — unknown, and unloved, I held him harsh and strange; the low stature188, the wiry make, the angles, the darkness, the manner, displeased189 me. Now, penetrated190 with his influence, and living by his affection, having his worth by intellect, and his goodness by heart — I preferred him before all humanity.
We parted: he gave me his pledge, and then his farewell. We parted: the next day — he sailed.
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renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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8
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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9
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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10
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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11
assay
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| n.试验，测定 | |
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12
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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13
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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14
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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15
uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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16
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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18
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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19
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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20
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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21
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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22
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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23
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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24
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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25
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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26
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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27
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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28
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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29
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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30
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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31
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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32
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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33
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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34
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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35
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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36
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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37
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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38
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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39
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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40
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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42
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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43
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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44
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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45
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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46
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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47
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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48
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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49
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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50
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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51
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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52
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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53
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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54
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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55
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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56
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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57
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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58
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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59
solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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60
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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61
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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62
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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64
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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65
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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66
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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67
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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68
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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69
inscribing
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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70
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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71
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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72
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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74
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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75
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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76
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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77
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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78
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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79
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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80
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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81
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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82
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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83
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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84
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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87
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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88
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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89
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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90
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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91
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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92
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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93
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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95
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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96
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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98
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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99
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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101
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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102
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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103
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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104
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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105
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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106
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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107
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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108
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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109
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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110
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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111
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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112
prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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113
junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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114
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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115
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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116
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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117
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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118
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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119
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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120
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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121
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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122
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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123
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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124
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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125
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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126
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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127
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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128
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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129
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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130
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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131
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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132
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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133
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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134
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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136
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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137
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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138
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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139
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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140
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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141
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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143
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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145
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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146
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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assailable
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| adj.可攻击的，易攻击的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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151
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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152
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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153
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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154
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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156
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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158
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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166
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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167
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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169
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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170
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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171
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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176
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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177
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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180
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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181
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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182
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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183
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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184
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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185
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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186
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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187
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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188
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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189
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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190
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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